


A Sign of The Times

by princesskay



Series: Claire/Frank Missing Scenes [8]
Category: House of Cards (US TV)
Genre: Angst, Bittersweet, Episode Tag, Episode: s04e13 Chapter 52, F/M, Love/Hate, Oral Sex, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-04
Updated: 2017-07-04
Packaged: 2018-11-23 13:02:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11402943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/princesskay/pseuds/princesskay
Summary: They killed a man together - that's not exactly something Tom would understand.





	A Sign of The Times

The numbness has melted away. There’s the sharp knife of anticipation between her ribs, and that breathless buoyancy of standing on the edge of a cliff beneath her sternum. She feels alive again. Exhilaration in their plight. The great apathy and pathos of having nothing left to lose. 

They’re flying into the sun, higher and higher, praying that their wings do not melt. The only hand to hold is each others. Even their history of love and hate, and all that stands in between, could not tear this bond apart. It’s destiny, whether this threat destroys them or makes them stronger. 

She finds him in the residence, inhabiting the chair from which she had earlier voiced their new directive. She can see the trail of smoke curling through the air from his mouth, and thinks dourly of his health. 

What would he do without her? 

She watches on in silence for another minute. She can’t see his face, just the back of his head, but she knows every thought process and plan traveling through the gray matter. 

The lights are on low, and his hair glints silver. 

_ When did it get to be so silver? _

The thought is infinitesimal in comparison to all the other questions and problems hounding them, but it jumps to the forefront of her mind. 

It suits him. But when did the creeping gray at his temples overshadow the chesnut? And when did the creases of worry exceed the laugh lines? 

She doesn’t turn her gaze in the mirror to wonder the same things about herself. 

Pushing off the doorframe, she marches across the room. 

“You shouldn’t be smoking.” 

“Claire, I didn’t hear you come in.” He says, looking up sharply. 

She takes the cigarette from his hand, and stubs it out in the tray on the coffee table. 

“After the day we just had …” She says, chiding. 

He waves a hand to disperse the smoke, and grunts a cough. 

“Is Tom coming tonight?” 

Claire takes a seat on the sofa, and smooths her dress over her knees. 

“I don’t think so. After the day we’ve had …” 

“It might take awhile for him to process what he saw.” 

“It will take a lot of people time to process.” 

“And that’s when we take advantage.” 

She nods, thinking of the horrific image of Mr. Miller’s throat being cut open. 

An American tragedy. Senseless violence. People as a whole cannot contend with that compelling concept. No logic to combat chaos. 

“Are you all right?” Francis asks, “You look tired.” 

She smiles, faintly. “So do you.” 

“It’s all the damn medications. They wear me down more than the pain does.” 

“Is it bad? The pain?” 

“Not today.” He says, casting her a soft smile. 

“You showed the people strength today. They have no idea if you’re suffering behind closed doors. But I do.” 

A frown knits Francis’ brow. Setting aside the book in his lap, he leans forward to look her firmly in the eyes. 

“Where is this coming from?”

Claire draws in a deep breath; not nearly enough to push the weight from her chest, but just enough to speak honestly. Like they haven’t in some time. 

“It shook me.” She says, “When Tom Hammerschmidt released the story, and you told me that you were frightened.” 

He glances away, perhaps ashamed by that slip of weakness. She doesn’t berate him for it as she once did. What other reaction is there in the face of utter destruction of all their plans and future?

“It reminded me of how frightened I was.” 

His eyes dart back to hers instantly, deep and dark with concern. 

“When they told me that you had been shot. Everything just stopped. My thoughts, my anger, my emotions. It was like I was paralyzed.”

She swallows back the lump in her throat that turns her words hoarse and strained. 

“For so long, I haven’t seen you as … human, as breakable.” She whispers, “But this story could have broken us, and it still could.” 

“It won’t. We have a plan now. Thanks to you.” He says, reaching out for her hand. 

She accepts it, wrapping her fingers tight around his. 

“We’ve been going nonstop for weeks.” She says, “Press conferences, fundraisers, speeches, interviews. We keep talking about our partnership, our bond, our marriage - to everyone else but each other.” 

“Because we don’t need to. We know where we stand with each other.” 

She glances away, and he tugs on her hand. 

“Don’t we?” He presses. 

She nods, pushing a smile to her mouth. “I just think it’s worth repeating that I won’t risk losing you, Francis. Not to a bullet wound, not to your own obstinance, not to a newspaper article.”

“You won’t.” 

The reassurance is low, gentle.

“I’m just saying, with Tom-”

“Claire, we’ve discussed that. You know I’m fine.  _ We’re _ fine.”

“I don’t want you to question my dedication to this partnership. I won’t let it distract me. The Vice Presidency is what I want.” 

“I know. And you’re going to get it.” 

A genuine smile tugs at her mouth. Rising from the couch, she steps in front of him, and bends to press a kiss against his cheek. 

“Tell me how you feel.” She murmurs against his skin. “How you really feel.” 

“What do you mean?” 

She pulls back just far enough to look into his eyes. Sliding her hand down his chest, she pauses with her palm over his side where he took the bullet. 

“I’m fine.” He says, “I swear.” 

“Good.” 

Hiking her dress up around her thighs, she straddles his lap. He offers little protest as she ducks down to press her mouth hard against his. His hands rush to cradle her hips, fingers digging into the swell of her backside through the fabric of her dress. 

When she breaks the kiss, he’s panting softly. 

“Claire, I don’t expect-”

She presses her fingers to his mouth, silencing the contrived objection. Their eyes meet, wordlessly exchanging an agreement before she bends to kiss him again. 

As the kiss grows harder and hotter, his hands travel down her thighs to dip beneath the hem of her dress. His palms graze the undersides of her thighs, settling down firmly only when they’ve claimed her ass. 

She drags her mouth back from his, and he strains forward, following the sweet promise of her lips. She strokes his hair back from his forehead with one hand, and pushes him back against the chair with the other. 

She shifts off his lap, and kneels on the floor between his legs. Her hands trail down his chest to gather the hem of his shirt. Dragging the shirt free of his belt, she pulls the fabric back just far enough to reveal his trembling belly, and the wounds turning to white scar tissue over his ribs. 

The scar of the surgeon’s knife connects the two round bullet wounds like points in a constellation. He shudders as she leans forward and drags her mouth against the damaged flesh. 

“Claire-”

His hand flutters over her hair, fighting the need to grab hold. 

She admires his self-restraint, moments before crushing it. 

As she drags her mouth over the long, puckered scar, she slides his belt buckle open. The low clink of metal echoes through her brain, interrupting the focused pulse of desire. The grind of the zipper follows, eclipsed only by Francis’ hitched gasp. 

Lifting her head, she gazes up his heaving chest to find him staring at her with heavy-lidded eyes. 

There’s so many things they could say. Things anyone else would have said. 

But they’ve said it all. After thirty years of evolution and redefinition, there isn’t much left but action, repetition. History repeating itself over and over. 

She remembers the first time she went down on her knees like this. 

He’d called her beautiful then. 

But maybe now she is just savage. A hungry beast feeding off opportunity and weakness. Inserting this unexpected addendum into an already shaky union with some haphazard hope it might still mean something. 

She doesn’t let the thought stop her. 

She’d come in here with this intent, even if she hadn’t realized it. 

They move in sync, her grabbing handfuls of fabric, him lifting his hips to allow her to drag it away. His cock comes free, red and faintly purple with need against the stark white scars. 

She takes him in her fist, her touch coarse and demanding. 

A cry jumps from his mouth, sharpening to a yelp as she bends forward to wrap her mouth around him. 

He grabs onto her hair, so hard she feels needle-like pain wash down her scalp and into her spine. He thrusts her face down, his hips forward. The head of his cock meets the back of her throat, threatening to gag her. Stars hedge at the corners of her vision, and blood rushes to her face. Her sinuses pulse with pressure as she struggles to breathe through her nose. 

She throws a hand up to grasp his chest while keeping the other securely around the base of his cock. She squeezes, hard. She can feel the wild beat of pleasure pumping through him, the need eagerly building toward climax. Salt springs sharp against the back of her tongue, the distinct flavor sending euphoric victory straight to her head. 

The power in his grip fades as his limbs go weak with pleasure. 

She pulls back, letting his cock fall wet and rigid against his belly. His fingers snag around her hair, but not hard enough to force her back down.

He licks his lips, and opens mouth as if to speak. But when she reaches back to unzip her dress, whatever he’d been conjuring dies before ever reaching his tongue. 

The dress slides from her shoulders as the zipper opens. Rising to her feet, she wiggles it from her hips and lets it fall in a heap around her ankles. Her skin stands ivory against the black fabric of her bra and panties.  

His gaze scours the length of her body, primal appreciation burning into every inch of her skin. She’s branded by him, down to her bones; she’s covered in three decades of kisses, of teeth marks, of bruises, and fingerprints. She wants to denounce his possession of her. She wants another man to touch her without her eyes sliding shut and seeing his face. But somehow, she’ll always circle back here - naked, and trembling, her desire bleeding into every fissure and wound between them. 

She kicks her heels off, and reaches for her panties. 

He catches her by the hip, fingers wiggling underneath hers to claim the waistband. 

She closes her eyes as he drags the fabric down, and presses his mouth in it’s place against her hip. The panties drift to her ankles. His fingers trace her inner thigh, sending ripples of need through her that spiral low into her belly. She shudders as his fingers brush against her labia. With a clench, her body begins to throb, hot and persistent. 

“Do you want me to…?” 

Her eyes spring open at the low sound of his voice, almost displaced in the vacuum of strained, deafening need drumming through her mind. 

He’s gazing up at her, his expression questioning, if not hopeful. 

She pushes him back against the chair, and straddles him again. 

“Let me finish.” 

He leans back, his hands settling around her hips. He doesn’t argue. 

Taking his cock, she hovers over him and guides the tip against her opening. She eases down, wincing as he stretches her. 

“Ohh.” He chokes out, his head tilting back in pleasure. 

She braces one hand against the back of the chair, the other around the arm of it. Locking her thighs around his hips, she begins to rock against him. Slowly, her body acclimates to the pressure, taking him to the hilt after a few shallow strokes. 

He grasps at her hips as her pace quickens, leaving no separation between each thrust. 

“Claire …” 

She closes her eyes, biting back a response. Her thighs are already starting to burn from the exertion, but she pushes on, riding him hard and fast. 

His hands clutch at her hips, and then at her jaw. He pushes himself forward, mouth and teeth grazing against her cheek before she pushes him back down. 

“Don’t exert yourself.” She rasps. 

“I’m fine-”

His retort is swallowed up in a moan. She can feel his fingers digging into her bare hips, leaving marks. She hadn’t ever questioned his strength. He should know the difference. 

He peers up at her from beneath pulsing lashes, the honeyed brown of his eyes turning to embers and shadows. He gropes at her breast, yanking her bra strap away in a brutish twist. The garment sags around her ribs, and he catches her breast in his palm. His touch is coarse, turning her nipple between his thumb and forefinger until it hurts. 

She grabs his wrist, and pins it against the chair. 

He snarls up at her. His hips buck underneath hers, matching her vehemence. She can hear their skin smacking dully, can feel his cock hitting a bit too deep. 

“Close your eyes.” She whispers, “Finish.” 

Despite the struggle, he obeys without hesitation. His eyes slide shut, and his jaw clenches in concentration. 

She thrusts out half a dozen more strokes before stiffens beneath her, and his face twists with pleasure. She closes her own eyes, focusing on the sensation of release, the wet pulse of him pumping her full. Her body aches, phantom spasms of orgasm absorbed from his skin into hers. 

He goes still beneath her. She can hear him breathing, labored and raspy gasps. She shouldn’t have pushed him so hard. 

Opening her eyes, she looks down to see him holding a hand over his side. 

“Are you all right?” She asks. 

He nods, biting back a wince. “Fine. Good.” 

She rises carefully, face inexplicably warming at the sensation of excess come dripping down her thighs. It’s nothing different than a hundred other times before this one, but she feels somehow cheap for coming back to him so soon. 

“Claire-”

He catches her by the wrist before she can depart. 

“Yes, Francis?” 

She turns to find him gazing up at her. The look in his eyes is soft, familiar. It captured her long before all this strife between them began, before the White House, before Walker, before Congress, before Washington. 

“Don’t go.” He says. 

It’s not a question, or a command. It’s just a statement. 

“I shouldn’t have … your health, you aren’t-”

“Don’t worry, you haven’t killed me yet.” 

She glances away, biting back a chuckle. She lets him pull her down, into his lap. He gathers her against his chest, and presses a kiss to her hair. 

“Is that what you were trying to do?” He murmurs, his tone bordering between serious and jovial. “Kill me? With an orgasm?” 

“Don’t joke about that.” She says, despite the smile tugging at her mouth. 

He catches her by the chin, and tilts her head back so their eyes can meet. 

“Really, Claire.” He says, sobering. “What were you trying to do? Because I never asked you to do this when we agreed things would be different.” 

“You’re still my husband. If I want to fuck you, I have a right to.” 

He smiles, though she can see he’s unconvinced. 

“We killed a man today.” She whispers, “No matter which we spin it, or tell ourselves a different version of events, we killed him. At the very least, we didn’t stop him from dying.” 

Francis nods. 

“It’s not exactly something Tom would understand.” She says. 

“So you’re here for the pillow talk?” 

“I’m here for you. Tom doesn’t know that side of me; he doesn’t want to.” 

Francis bends to press a row of kisses along her hairline, all the way down to her cheek. She tilts her cheek up to accept them, closing her eyes in search of abandon. 

“You’re a different person with him?” 

“Something like that.” 

Her breath catches around the statement as Francis’ hand unfurls over her ribs, and glides down over the quiver of her belly. 

Her eyes dart open. 

“Will you let me?” He asks. 

She swallows back some insincere reply. It doesn’t pay to lie to him. 

Parting her legs, her purses her lips over a whimper at the languorous journey of his fingers. Her eyes slide shut again as his fingertips graze her labia, kindling a fresh spark of desire deep in her belly. His fingers stroke open the tender folds, and swirl through the arousal and come pooling at her opening. Gathering some on his fingers, he drags the moisture up over the swollen bud of her clitoris. 

She gasps, and arches, her legs threatening to close around his hand. 

Bringing his arm over her leg, he pins her thigh against his chest. He massages harder at her clit, muttering a sound of pleasure as she whimpers and twists on his lap. He presses his mouth over hers as she begins to moan louder, swallowing the note and vibrations and feeding her his own. 

When she’s grabbing at the front of his shirt and trembling under his caress, he slides his fingers down and into her. Two fingers sink into her with ease, sending rifts of sensation and aching pleasure through her body. 

Their mouths break apart as she cries out, “Oh, God!”

He fucks his fingers into her slowly, watching her squirm and moan with a rapt gaze. Curling within her, they stroke her closer and closer to orgasm until she’s wobbling on the edge, her body tingling with a fleeting promise. 

“Yes, yes…” She pants, biting at her lip in anticipation. 

She keeps her eyes squeezed shut, focused on the incoming tide of pleasure. 

He says nothing, but she can feel his gaze devouring her. And his fingers - they’re reaching inside her, but a part of him his reaching even deeper. She can feel him in her chest, in her brain, behind the brick and mortar walls of her heart. He’s hiding there, just like he always has been. 

She can’t hate him for it as his pumping fingers thrust her into the blind, white light of pleasure. Her spine snaps taut as the pleasure hits hard, spasms rippling through her like her own, physical earthquake. A catastrophe, a sign of the times. She’s but another victim of the wasteland. 

The thought is engulfed by pleasure, these meager seconds of relief and forgetfulness. Inside the storm of her own release, she can’t think about anything but the next wave, the next bout of pleasure, that ache when the orgasm clings on longer than it should. 

HIs hand retreats, leaving her breathe and recover. She keeps her eyes shut for awhile, listening to the hammer of her heartbeat ease, and feeling the sensitivity between her legs slip away. 

When she opens her eyes, he’s gone back to kissing her hair. His fingers rest loose and harmless against her hip. 

She doesn’t think of getting up again. She’ll stay, for now. 

There’s a storm coming, and here they wait, in the center of it all, in the calm, on the edge. It could be the last night on earth, the end of life as they know it. It could be the birth of a new world. 

 

~the end~

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! :)
> 
> You can also find me on [Tumblr!](http://clairehales.tumblr.com//)!


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